“Thank you. I should be much obliged if you would.” But as it turned out, there was no need for him to do this. Even as Monica spoke they became aware of a slight stir in the hall. Uncertain, rapid steps crossed the intervening space, and the next moment Haddon stood before them in the doorway, white, drenched, dishevelled, exhausted, leaning as if for support against the framework, whilst his eyes sought those of his sister with a strange look of dazed horror. “Beatrice!” he cried, in a strained, unnatural tone. “Say it is not true!” Monica had stepped forward, anxious and startled at his appearance. The look upon her face must have brought conviction home to Haddon’s heart, and this terrible conviction completed the work begun by previous over-fatigue and exhaustion. He made two uncertain steps forward, looked round him in a dazed bewildered way; then putting his hand to his head with a sudden gesture as of pain, called out: “I say, what is it?—Look out!” and Tom had only just time to spring forward and guide his fall as he dropped in a dead faint upon the couch hard by. “Poor boy!” said Monica gently; “the shock has been too much for him.” [Illustration] CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. MONICA. Lord Haddon was carried upstairs by Tom’s direction, and put to bed at once, but it was a very long time before he recovered consciousness, and the doctor’s face was grave when he rejoined Monica and Beatrice an hour later. Afterwards they learned that he had reached the life-boat station, only to find the boat out in another direction, that he had lost his way in the darkness, and had been riding for hours over trackless moors, wet through by driving storms of rain, obliged often to halt, despite the cold and wet, to wait for passing gleams of moonlight to show him his way; and this after a long day’s shooting and a long fast. He had reached the castle at last, utterly worn out and exhausted, only to hear the terrible news of the death of his best friend. The strain had been too much, and he had given way. He awoke to consciousness only in a high state of fever, with pain in every joint; and Beatrice, in answer to Tom’s question, admitted that her brother had had a sharp attack of rheumatic fever some three years before, and had always been rather susceptible to cold and damp ever since. Tom looked gravely at Monica. “I was afraid he was in for something of that kind.” “Poor boy!” she said again, very gently. “I am so sorry. You will stay with us, Tom? It will be a comfort to have you.” “Of course I will stay,” he answered, in his abruptest fashion. “I shall sit up with Haddon to-night. You two must go to bed at once—I insist upon it.” “Come, Beatrice,” said Monica, holding out her hand. “We must obey orders you see.” As they went together up the broad staircase, Beatrice said, with a little sob: “I cannot bear to think of our giving you all this trouble—just now.” But Monica stopped her by a kiss.